


Day 15 - Possession (15.1)

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Dick Grayson is Robin, Don't copy to another site, Dubious Consent Touching, Gen, No Sex, Paedophilic Behaviour, Possession, Some Force Feeding, pls read the warnings, predatory behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: Bruce starts acting weirdly after patrol one night. Dick ignores it until it's too late.No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWNPossession| Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947217
Comments: 39
Kudos: 129





	Day 15 - Possession (15.1)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of three fics (still debating on whether or not it'll be four)
> 
> **WARNINGS: predatory behaviour from an older male to a younger character, dubcon touching (nothing sexual), force/pressured feeding, paedophilic behaviour**
> 
> If there's anything I missed in the warnings or tags, please let me know.
> 
> Disclaimer: don't own dc ^~^

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

They were coming back from patrol, and getting out of the Batmobile. Part of Dick wanted to just crash in the Cave – walking all the way upstairs, and then going through the whole process of getting ready for bed… it felt _much_ too exhausting to even think about.

He yawned as he gently closed the door of the Batmobile, stretching slightly. That was when he caught a glimpse of Bruce standing right next to him, a silent, dark pillar. Dick _jumped_ , and then laughed a little hysterically.

“Geez, B,” he said, yawning again. “Scared the _crap_ outta me.”

Bruce didn’t say anything.

“Bruce?” Dick said slowly, awareness slowly filtering in more and more.

Bruce reached out and _stroked_ his cheek, and Dick stood perfectly still. He could feel the scrape of Bruce’s gloved fingers over his jawbone, see the way his eyes – slightly visible through the milky lenses of the cowl – were focused not on Dick’s eyes, but on some lower part of his face. Dick didn’t know what it was about this single gesture of affection that put him on edge, but he didn’t move a muscle until Bruce finally spoke.

“You’re tired,” Bruce said. His voice was the same, that Batman growl mixed with Bruce’s personally rumble, a combination that came out more when they were in the Cave. “You should go to bed.”

Dick nodded, and thankfully, the hand slipped away. He watched, nerves slightly fried, as Bruce walked off towards the Batcomputer.

* * *

Dick didn’t know what time it was when he woke up, but there was a weird energy strumming through his veins as he blinked into the darkness of his room. His glow in the dark stars, planets, and various circus animals lit up his walls with a dim shine, allowing him to at least see most of the room.

The curtains were slightly open, allowing a sliver of the black night outside to be visible – or it would be, if there was anything to see through the window. Dick’s gaze went to his desk next – the most open part of his room. He could make out the vague blobs that were his schoolbooks, the jacket slung over his chair.

And then Dick’s eyes swivelled to his closet, and he shot upright in bed.

In front of the closet doors was a figure, standing perfectly still and facing Dick.

Dick turned on his lamp immediately, heart jackhammering in his chest. He tried to remember where he had various weapons around his room, how loud he’d have to yell for Bruce to hear, or Alfred if Bruce was still in the Cave.

The light shone on the figure’s face.

“ _Bruce?”_ Dick said incredulously, slumping against the headboard and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “What the _fuck_ , B, you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Bruce stepped closer. His face was still as impassive as it’d been when Dick had switched on the light – he hadn’t even blinked at the sudden brightness. He stopped about a metre away from Dick’s bed.

Dick stared at him, and licked his lips as his mouth suddenly went dry. “Is something wrong?” he said. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Bruce came over and sat down on the edge of Dick’s bed. “Everything’s fine,” he said, but there was something almost mechanical in his tone.

Dick shuffled in bed slightly, drawing up his knees closer to his chest. He knew that Bruce often didn’t like to talk about nightmares, liked to ignore them and pretend that they hadn’t happened and that he was fine.

“Then why’re you creeping in my room in the middle of the night?” he asked, only half joking.

Bruce turned his body so he was facing Dick. Now, Dick could clearly see how he was in slacks and a pressed shirt, two of the buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up as well.

“You going somewhere?” he asked when Bruce didn’t answer.

Bruce tilted his head slowly. “Hmm?” he said. His eyes bore into Dick’s skull, as though he was probing and prodding at Dick with his gaze.

“It’s _late_ ,” Dick said pointedly. “We just got back. You should be sleeping.”

Bruce let out a condescending yet fond sigh, and then he stood up. Nearing Dick’s head, he ruffled his hair gently, in a way that made it feel unlike any hair ruffling Dick had ever experienced. And then Bruce’s hand came down to cradle his cheek, lifting Dick’s head upwards.

“You’re right,” he said. “I did have a bad dream. I was thinking I could sleep in here with you.”

Dick was frozen in the hold Bruce had, the scent of Bruce’s cologne strong as it swirled around him. He let out a small noise to acknowledge Bruce’s words, nodding. Bruce had never asked outright like that, before – normally, Dick would be the one to offer, or would slide in beside Bruce.

Bruce smiled and let go. He headed over to the window, closing the curtains all the way. That single action made something in Dick relax – it was a typical Bruce thing to do, to check that his windows were properly shut, that the curtains were drawn. He settled back into bed and tried to ignore the niggling in the back of his mind.

Bruce got in on the other side. Dick didn’t hesitate to turn over and bend an elbow, using it as a pillow. Normally, Bruce would give him a withering look, at the insinuation that he was here to _talk_ about his _feelings_ , but this time, he mirrored Dick.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Bruce shook his head. “No,” he said.

That, at least, was normal. Dick huffed a small laugh, mostly out of relief at this weird late-night version of Bruce, and turned to the other side, in his usual sleep position.

Only a minute later, Dick heard the sound of sheets shifting behind him. Then, an arm wound around his middle. He could feel the rest of Bruce’s body tight against his, and he froze instantly.

This… this was _weird_. Spooning? The only times that Bruce had ever initiated contact when he’d and Dick had slept in the same bed was when Dick was injured, to check on him. Other than that, he didn’t touch Dick beyond reciprocating.

Normally, Dick’s stiffness would’ve made Bruce back away, too. For some reason, though, Bruce did nothing now. Dick lay as still as possible, feeling warm huffs of air against the naps of his neck. Bruce’s breaths deepened; Dick could tell the exact moment he’d fallen asleep, still holding onto Dick with his hand spread over Dick’s torso.

* * *

“Alfred!” Dick yelled from atop the stairs. “ _Alfred!”_

“What is it?” Bruce said in a level voice from behind him. Dick whirled around.

“Where’s Al?” he asked.

“Trip abroad,” Bruce told him. “His mother fell ill quite suddenly.”

“Oh,” Dick said, surprised. What was even more surprising was the thought that Alfred wouldn’t at least leave him a note. “Did he say when he’d be getting back?”

Bruce shook his head. “I didn’t ask. It _is_ his mother, you know.”

His voice was a little pointed, and Dick immediately felt guilty. Of course Alfred should take as much time as he needed – he knew, if it were his own mother, he’d be hesitant to leave her side if she was even the slightest bit unwell.

“What were you after?” Bruce said.

There was something weird about his voice, but Dick was too frazzled to care. “My schoolbag,” he began. “And my shoes. I can’t find them.”

Bruce grunted a little, but it was different from his typical grunts. Then he disappeared into his office for a moment. “Here,” he said. “Use this.” In his hands was a black briefcase.

Dick stared at him. “B, I go to _high school_ ,” he said. “I can’t go in with _that_.”

“Why not?” Bruce’s gaze bore into him, eyes sharp as diamonds. They made Dick shiver a little.

“I—” How was Dick to explain that it would only make him look like a _poser_ , a fake. Someone who was only imitating the rich kids with a multimillion dollar company to inherit when they came of age. Sniggers would follow after him if he took that into school. “Never mind. I’ll use it today. I’m running late as it is.”

Something satisfied flitted across Bruce’s face. He nodded. “Good boy,” he said.

Dick frowned. _Good boy?_ Bruce had never praised him like _that_ before. And the way he said it was different to how Dick had heard the phrase being used on TV or by parents of his friends.

“Oh, and Dick,” Bruce called, just as Dick was heading back to his room. “I had these shoes made for you. You can wear them for school.”

In Bruce’s hands was a shoebox. Dick took it gingerly, giving Bruce a questioning glance. The only time he ever had shoes ordered like this was before important events, and the thought of suffering through a gala or something without Alfred here made it seem all the more unbearable.

Inside was a pair of black loafers. They seemed reasonable enough, nothing like the black dress shoes that Dick had to wear for formal events.

He nodded his thanks. “Thanks, B,” he said.

Dick was about to put the briefcase and shoebox down so he could try them on – and he really was running late now – when Bruce stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Here,” he said, eyes going intense once more. “Let me.”

And then, before Dick could say anything, Bruce took the shoebox out of his hand. He knelt in front of Dick and ran a hand down Dick’s lower leg, the same way one would on a horse when picking their hooves. Bruce’s fingers lingered around the knob of Dick’s ankle and his heel, the touch against his bare skin light and almost tickling.

Dick shuffled uncomfortably. “Is it not fitting?” he said, looking for an excuse to hurry this along.

Bruce slipped the shoe on him. “It’s perfect,” he said.

* * *

Dinner was a quieter affair now that Alfred was overseas. The food was different now, too. Normally, when Alfred was away, Bruce and Dick would work together to create something edible – most of the time. When that failed, they’d order in.

Dick had gotten home late tonight, expecting to either be greeted with a disaster in the kitchen or a box of pizza. Perhaps both.

Instead, what he received was a table laid out with what appeared to be an actual banquet. Cutlery was set to perfection, each individual utensil in what appeared to be textbook set-up. Alfred would’ve been so proud, Dick thought distantly.

“What’s all this?” he asked, dumping his bag in a nearby chair. Then, thinking better of it – who knew the type of guests they were probably having, with this sort of an arrangement – he picked it back up, and casually slid his foot back inside the shoe that was half off.

Dick could hear Bruce bustling around behind the wall that separated this room from the kitchen. He stepped inside to find, to his astonishment, Bruce in a white apron that Dick had never seen before in his life. Alfred had his aprons, but all the plain white ones had been replaced since Dick had arrived and begun gifting him various patterned ones.

“Dinner,” Bruce said to him.

“I… I see that,” Dick said. “Did you… is someone coming? Do you have a date?”

Bruce tilted his head, which Dick found odd. He'd never seen that particular mannerism on Bruce before. “Why would I have a date?” he asked, but it was like there was an addition to the end of that sentence that he’d deliberately left out, allowing for Dick to make whatever assumptions he would like.

“Did you order in?” Dick asked cautiously. He placed his bag on the pristine countertop warily.

Bruce gave him a smile, but there was something shark-like about it. He looked at Dick like he was about to devour him whole. “I cooked,” he said simply.

Dick _stared_. “What do you mean, you _cooked_ —” he began, but Bruce interrupted him.

“Now, the food will be getting cold if we wait any longer, so wash up and join me,” Bruce said.

He touched Dick’s shoulders gently and steered him towards the kitchen sink. Bruce had touched him many times, over the course of Dick’s life in Gotham, but Dick had never thought of it as cold before.

He slid into the seat diagonal from Bruce, who was at the head of the table. Table manners and dinner etiquette had been drilled into Dick for years now, but that had always been something for formal events, for high end restaurants. At home, they’d always eaten simply, with one pair of cutlery, and a change if there was dessert immediately after dinner.

And they’d certainly never had a _candelabra_ in the middle of the food, either.

Dick set the napkin down over his lap, like he’d been taught to do. Bruce had already served food on his plate, which was weird, too – Bruce knew he liked to serve himself, when he could, because he preferred not to waste food when he could help it.

But Dick didn’t say a word. He picked up his knife and fork, and, with a questioning glance at Bruce – who nodded encouragingly – he took the tiniest of bites from what appeared to be perfectly cooked steak.

It was… well, it _was_ perfectly cooked.

Dick’s surprise must’ve shown up on his face, because Bruce smiled. “You didn’t think I could cook properly?”

Dick snorted. “I’ve never seen the kitchen survive your attempts, so no, not really.” He eyed Bruce. “You really cooked this? All by yourself?”

Bruce smirked a little at that, but it was a private expression, as though Dick wasn’t supposed to have spotted it for the millisecond that it took over Bruce’s face before disappearing into a more genuine smile.

“Of course,” he said. “Would I lie to you?”

Dick smiled a little hesitantly at that.

Halfway through dinner, Bruce stood up and went over to a side table. Dick hadn’t noticed it before – too surprised by the meal prepared – but there was a bottle of wine sitting there. Bruce poured some into his wine glass, and then went to do the same to Dick’s.

Dick blinked at him. “No, thank you,” he said, when Bruce didn’t look to be stopping.

Bruce frowned slightly. “You’re allowed to have some, Dick,” he said, a hint of condescension colouring his voice. “The meal isn’t complete without it.”

“I don’t drink, B,” Dick said.

He didn’t understand why Bruce was even _offering_ him wine, to begin with. He was sixteen, and had made his views on alcohol abundantly clear. Bruce had respected them, too, and seemed as though he were relieved that he wouldn’t have to deal with underage drinking.

“Yes, but I thought you could make an exception tonight.” Bruce picked up his own glass gently, swirling its contents around a little before taking a delicate sip.

While it wasn’t surprising to see Bruce drinking wine, it… well, it sort of _was_. Bruce had never taken even a sip of anything alcoholic when outside the house, because he was paranoid like that. He’d had the occasional glass at home when Dick had first arrived at the Manor, but it’d been well over five years since he’d seen him with a glass even here, with no _outside_ guests to entertain.

Dick had, in all honesty, thought of it a lot like solidarity, a way of Bruce telling him that, in a society that was so intent on drinking culture, he was perfectly fine with not partaking in it.

Dick cautiously took another bite of food as Bruce sat down, the bottle of wine placed between them. Luckily, though, it seemed that the moment of tenseness was either imagined – on Dick’s behalf – or had evaporated.

Bruce’s plate was clear well before Dick’s was. Bruce sat there, still on that same glass of wine, watching Dick as he struggled to finish the food Bruce had put on his plate. There was still a few bites of the steak left, as well as a quarter of the mashed potatoes, and Dick knew that there was no way he could finish it all.

“You’re full?” Bruce said, a hard edge to his voice.

Dick had never been _forced_ to finish his plate. When his parents had been alive, and they’d had enough to eat that Dick would feel too full from a meal to finish it all, one of them would just eat it for him. Wasting was unheard of, when half the time they didn’t have enough to feel properly satisfied.

That had been one of the things that had disgusted Dick when he’d first been exposed to high society – the sheer waste that so few people could generate. A bite of already tiny finger food, the rest placed on the edge of their plate to be discarded the next time a waiter with a tray walked by.

The amount of food that was made for events, and then later that night, thrown into the garbage. Not everyone boxed up leftovers and left them at homeless shelters.

“Uh…” Dick didn’t know how to answer that, what with this weird mood Bruce seemed to be in.

“Here.” Bruce was suddenly edging forward in his seat, sliding his plate away so he could lean in closer to Dick. “Maybe this will kickstart your appetite.”

Dick was frozen to the spot as Bruce plucked his knife and fork out of his hands, cutting a small slice from the steak. Dick didn’t know what he was doing – did Bruce think that stealing his food was going to make him hungry?

But then Bruce nudged the fork closer to Dick, with an expectant look on his face, and Dick’s eyes widened as he realised what Bruce intended for Dick to do.

“I—” The words died in Dick’s throat at the look Bruce was giving him, that piercing stare that penetrated through every layer of comfort he’d ever wrapped himself in.

“Just one mouthful,” Bruce said, and the look disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared.

Dick hesitantly opened his mouth and took the piece of meat off the fork, chewing for as long as it took to ensure that he wouldn’t choke on it, before he swallowed it down _hard_. It was painful going down, but Dick couldn’t think of anything but escaping this room.

“May I be excused?” Dick asked, as politely as he could manage.

“You may,” Bruce told him, sitting back on his own chair properly now. “You’ve been good this afternoon.”

Dick fled.

* * *

All his devices had disappeared from his room, as had all his clothes, save for three pairs of silk pyjamas. No underwear, no socks, not even a _singlet_. His shoes were gone, too, except for the black loafers Dick had worn to school, and another that looked like direct replicas of the antique doll that sat on one of the fireplaces in the formal living room. It was black and shiny, with little straps and a buckle. There was a small bow atop it, and it looked to be Dick’s size.

Everything that had happened in here had to be Bruce, because there was no one else who could’ve come around. Dick didn’t know what to do. For all he knew, there were cameras in here, too; he couldn’t go about tipping Bruce off about anything he was going to do.

His closet had a false wall, where he kept some of his gear – not even Alfred knew about it. Dick walked in, undressing by throwing every piece of clothing he was wearing all over the inside of the closet. If there _were_ cameras, maybe he’d get lucky and an article of clothing would land on one.

Dick didn’t go straight for the false wall, knowing that any obviously suspicious movements would result in being found out instantly. Instead, he went through the three articles of clothing that were now on hangers, all of them weird pyjamas that he’d seen similar versions of at the far back of Bruce’s closet.

Dick pretended to try things on, moving them around the closet. Hopefully, Bruce – or Other Bruce, as he’d taken to calling him now – would get bored, if he were monitoring the cameras that Dick still wasn’t sure were actually here.

After what felt like hours, Dick slid open the false wall. He rummaged inside, panicking for a moment when his fingers came up empty.

But no, it was still there, a dusty little box in the far corner. Dick grabbed it and lifted it over, careful not to disturb the dust that was laid out along the floor. His heart was beating louder than ever before.

Dick lifted the lid of the box, mentally sighing in relief that everything was still in place. In there was a mostly outgrown uniform – though he’d probably still fit into it if he really tried – and an assortment of weapons and gadgets.

Dick ignored most of them, though he slid a taser into the waistband of his underwear, having no pockets. There was an EMP deep in here somewhere, and he needed to find the emergency phone that would connect him to Clark and Diana.

Dick’s fingers had only just located the phone when he heard his door creak open.

Dick flipped it open in an instant, fingers rapidly moving over the keyboard and typing out a hasty SOS B DOWN and sending it. He shoved it into the box, and pushed the box under a shelf, just as Bruce entered.

“Dick,” he said. He was dressed in attire almost identical to one of the pyjama sets in Dick’s closet.

“Hey, B,” Dick said slowly, standing up with a stretch. “Just getting ready for bed.”

Bruce nodded. “I hope you like everything in here,” he said. “I picked them all out for you specially.”

Dick chewed on his lip, wondering just how to go about this. It was clear that Bruce was either under the influence of something, or he’d been replaced by a clone of a robot. Dick couldn’t hurt him until he was sure which it was – or if the real Bruce was in any sort of danger.

“Why?” he said finally, widening his eyes a little to make his question as innocent as possible.

Bruce stepped further into the closet, a smile on his face. It was _condescending_ , that smirk, like he saw Dick as a plaything. “I wanted you to have nice things,” he told him. “In fact, I realised I’d completely overlooked something, when I was shopping for you.”

Bruce produced a box, which he’d probably had hidden behind him. It was a gentle green, a faded shade of Robin green, and it was tied together with a red bow.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Bit obvious, don’t you think?” he said.

Bruce shrugged. “I told them it was an early Christmas present,” he said.

Dick’s eyebrows furrowed even more. “B, you don’t even _do_ Christmas,” he said.

“Open it,” Bruce told him instead of replying.

Dick didn’t sigh like he wanted to. Instead, he tugged on the ribbons until they gave way, and opened the lid of the box. Inside was a nightgown.

Dick’s eyebrows shot up, and he couldn’t help the snort that came out of him unbidden. “A _nightgown?”_

Bruce nodded. “I’ve always liked them,” he said. “They’re so… _free_. Flowing. Now that it’s getting warm again, I thought you might appreciate it.”

There was a look in Bruce’s eyes that said that if Dick _didn’t_ appreciate it, he wouldn’t like what happened next. So Dick nodded hesitantly, hands still hovering over the box.

At the nod, Bruce smiled at him, sinking into Dick’s mattress. “Try it on,” he urged. “You said you were getting ready for bed anyway.”

“Uh.” Dick couldn’t come up with any good reason for not trying it on, apart from the fact that this thing was _sheer_. Bruce would be able to see what he had on underneath it, would be able to see any bulges in his underwear from the taser. And Dick didn’t like to admit it, but he felt much safer with the taser.

“Go on,” Bruce said, another little knowing smile. He was eyeing Dick like he was a candy cane.

Dick nodded jerkily, grabbing the box and taking it with him into the closet. He shut the door behind him carefully.

Pulling the nightgown out of the box, Dick winced once again. It was thin and delicate, like something a fairy would wear. The arms were even more transparent than the body of the dress – it barely looked like Dick had sleeves, beyond the part around his wrists. It came up to just below his knees, and the layer inside stopped above.

Dick hated it, not because of how it looked, but because of how it made him _feel_ , how helpless this thing would make him. It was no coincidence that there were no undergarments left in Dick’s closet – he knew with certainty that anything he took off would also vanish.

Dick slipped off the pair of pyjamas he had on, putting on the nightgown. It was soft against his skin, slippery and sleek. He was glad that there was a mirror in the closet, so he could see just what Bruce would be seeing once he stepped out. He eyed his waist, turning this way and that to see whether he could spot the taser.

There was definitely a visible bump, but it was near Dick’s side enough that he could probably (hopefully) get away with it.

Dick stepped outside, and Bruce smiled like he’d just seen food that he’d ordered at a restaurant heading towards him.

“Good boy,” Bruce said softly, eyes raking down every inch of Dick. “It fits you perfectly.”

Dick tried not to squirm. He faked a yawn, and said, “I think I’ll turn in now.”

But now Bruce was walking towards him, and Dick couldn’t wait any longer, because he didn’t know what was up with this Other Bruce and he didn’t want to risk it, not with how this man was eyeing him, like he was a piece of candy to be unwrapped and eaten.

Dick waited until Bruce got closer to him, and then he whipped out the taser, hitting Bruce directly in the torso. It was enough to have made him go down – it _should’ve_ been enough to make him go down.

But Bruce only looked down at it, and tilted his head at Dick.

And then he threw his head back and _laughed_ , like a deranged madman, like the _Joker_. Dick stared, slightly unnerved, but, more pressingly, terrified. He knew that this was the turning point in whatever would happen now, however this would play out until Clark or somehow got here.

That was when Bruce’s eyes went entirely black, and he grinned at Dick in a way Dick had never seen Bruce’s facial muscles move.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bruce said, in a sickly sweet tone that was nothing like his own, and Dick felt something inside him _snap_.

He took a running start at Bruce, knowing that the element of surprise would be the main thing on his side. Dick aimed a kick at Bruce’s groin, but despite everything, the knowledge that there would be nothing guarding him from feeling the blow softened it.

He really shouldn’t have bothered – Bruce was only knocked back from the momentum, and then he straightened, a glint in his eyes as Dick stood opposite him. He’d been ready to wrap his arms around Bruce’s neck following Bruce keeling forward, but that was obviously out now.

Dick attacked, Bruce weathered it.

Dick didn’t even bother with the few heavy hitter moves he’d been taught to do with his body mass. He went only for the ones that would outmanoeuvre Bruce, knowing that cutting off his oxygen supply was probably the only way to bring him down.

Dick wished, not for the first time, that he had more supplies on his person. The number of things he was currently willing to do for a pair of handcuffs…

Dick was tiring, and Bruce showed no signs of being winded. Dick attacked again, but even before his blow hit, Dick knew it would be no use. His thighs wrapped around Bruce’s neck in a last attempt to knock him out.

Bruce went backwards, and Dick’s head hit the wall with a loud _thump_. Black dots spotted his vision and his grip spasmed despite his best intentions, and that was when it was all over.

It was like Bruce had only been playing with him, before, the way a cat would with its prey.

He _pulled_ , fingers hitting the perfect nerve points along Dick’s legs that made him yelp in pain and thrash. Dick somersaulted forward, his fall broken awkwardly by the way Bruce grabbed him around the middle. He shoved Dick into the wooden flooring until Dick couldn’t see straight – though he could make out the bits of red that dotted the shiny brown.

The only real thought going through his mind, though, was that there was no way Bruce – the _real_ Bruce – would have the physical strength to do this, especially not after Dick had fought him with everything he had. Their sparring matches came out with both parties winded and breathing hard, needing time to recover after just five minutes. This had gone on for almost fifteen.

And then, when Dick was breathing shallowly and fading in and out of consciousness, Bruce knelt down to his level.

“I’m not _mad_ ,” he said, with a little smile on his face. “I like a little fire.”

Then he lifted Dick, no care about how he went about it, and threw Dick like a rag doll over his shoulder. That was when Dick finally gave in to the blackness pulling at him. 

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i really lulled you all into thinking all my whump was gonna be fluffy whump lmao
> 
> The sequel will be out for tmrw's prompts!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!! This series of fics won't be cross-posted lol bc I fear tumblr's purity culture


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